Strength and Courage
by Cainwen the Warrior
Summary: Part 2 of "Vengeance is Mine". Maighread's brother Gilleasbachan has been rescued from slavery, but can 10000 years of torture and hurt be undone? And can a family long seperated be reunited in this life? A story of healing. Also, a marriage! Royla.
1. Loving Gives You Courage

**Loving Someone Gives You Courage**

_"__Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength; loving someone deeply gives you courage.__"__-__Lao Tzu_

A/N: Since this is Part II, I'm going to assume that you have read part I, "Vengeance is Mine". We're picking up directly where Part I left off. Enjoy!

Hope tempered with wisdom—with these, and love as Carson said, maybe my brother can be made whole again.

Maybe he can heal. Maybe we can be a family. Maybe he won't always be a tortured soul. Maybe…

There are so many maybes that have to happen if Gilleasbachan is ever to be whole.

All these thoughts dash madly through my mind as I run headlong towards the kitchens to retrieve jello and broth and bring to culinary life an ancient family recipe.

I hope they have something besides green jello. You know the supplies are running low when there is only green jello being served. Next to no one _likes_ green jello, yet somehow the kitchens are continually receiving large shipments of the stuff. I can't help but vaguely wonder if the people on earth are trying to foist off their green jello on the poor people in another galaxy. There's no reason for the stuff's existence.

"Mairghread!"

I pause in my pursuit, turning around to see Dad chasing after me, his long loping stride easily catching up to me. As soon as he draws even, I begin moving again.

"Dad, you don't have to say anything," I tell him perfunctorily. "It's okay."

"Hey, will you stop for a minute?" he grabs hold of my shoulders, jerking me to a halt and spinning me around so that I have to face him.

"Mairghread," he tries to begin again, sighs, breaks off and looks away. In his face I see his struggle written plainly. How is he supposed to handle this? Gilleasbachan is my brother, but he is also a wraith. He is a fellow refugee from another wraith's twisted idea of fun, but he himself is a wraith—it always will return to that simple, irrefutable fact. Yes, Dad accepted me, took me in as his daughter, but can he accept my brother in the same way when the circumstances are so very different? Just as he wrestles with these things, so does he wrestle with the words to express them to me.

"Dad, it's okay," I repeat, taking his huge, calloused hand in my small, soft hand. "I don't expect you to take in my brother like you took in," I try to reassure him as he turns to look at me. "Just, try not to frighten him. He's lived in fear for so long—you know what that's like," I duck my head so I can look into Dad's eyes as he looks intently at the floor. "I understand, you might not be able to look at him like you look at me. Just, please, don't aim your blaster at him," I beg only half-jokingly. "I'm not sure he could handle that and he couldn't hurt anyone. Besides," I smile and remind him, "Gilleasbachan is my brother."

"Fair enough," Dad kisses me lightly on the top of my head and throws an arm over my shoulders, resuming my trip to the mess hall with me.

"So, where are you off to?" he asks, his demeanor easier and more light-hearted since, I suppose, he no longer has to worry about what my expectations are for him and my brother.

"Mess hall. Dr. Beckett said that Gilleasbachan can have some jello and some broth. And I want to give the cooks an old family recipe—hopefully they can make it," I explain, and then, knowing that Dad knows what supplies the kitchen has and what's on the menu better than most of the cooks, ask, "What flavors do they have today?"

"Of broth or jello?" he teases me.

I toss a mock-exasperated look up at him. "Jello, of course."

"Peach and black cherry," he tells me with having to stop and think about it. "And green."

"There's always green," I mutter and almost walk straight past the mess hall. Dad gently pulls me back and steers me inside. With his free hand, he grabs a tray and we walk in tandem over to the dessert counter.

Dad begins loading the tray up with the various jellos and other things for himself as I duck out from under his arm and into the kitchens.

"Simon? Où es-tu?" I call out over the din of the kitchen, trying to spot the _petit_ Frenchman, but to no avail—it's like looking for a isean in a herd of khusarks.

"Oui?" a voice from behind me replies and makes me jump.

"Ah! Simon, don't scare me like that!" I gasp, spinning around. "You'll give me a heart attack."

"Come now, you're but a young woman! A lovely _mademoiselle_—too young for ze heart attack!" he counters, eyebrows raised innocently.

"I was born over 10,000 years ago, Simon. I'm not exactly young."

"Pfft," he snorts. "Nonsense. Now, what can I do for you?"

"I need some broth for my brother—just something plain and simple, please…"

Simon nods and yells over my shoulder, "'Ey! You, er, Michelle!" The young woman in question pauses in stirring a pot just a few kilograms and a wood fire short of being a caldron and looks at Simon, who tells her, "Some broth, uhn? _Du poulet_._ Vite, vite!"_ She nods and dives into the throng. Simon looks back at me. "Anyzing else?"

"Yes, there is an ancient family soup recipe I have—I was wondering, if I gave it to you, could you make it?"

"_Bien sûr!_ Over here—there is ze recipe computer," he guides me to a computer covered in protective silicone. "Just enter it in, and let me know when you want it."

I begin entering the ingredients—isean, water, herbs, tava beans, something roughly akin to a carrot… "Could you have it ready for lunchtime tomorrow?"

"If it doez not take three days to make, _absolument_!" he assure me as I hit the enter key to add the recipe to the database.

"Perfect," I kiss him lightly on the check as thanks. "_Merci beaucoup, Simon_."

"Bah! _C'est rien_" he brushes me off as Michelle returns, bearing a thermos, a bowl and a spoon. He takes them from her and hands them to me. "Now, go make sure your brother eats zat, yes?"

"Yes, Simon. Thank you!" I call over my shoulder as I dive out of the chaotic kitchen, back to the dining hall where Dad is waiting for me with a tray piled absurdly high with colorful desserts and a small stack of napkins.

"Dad, Gilleasbachan hasn't eaten in millennia. I seriously doubt he'd be able to eat a tenth of that," I comment as we start back to the infirmary.

"It's not all for him," I am informed simply and handed a cup of what looks like rice pudding. "Eat."

"What is it with people wanting me to eat today?!" I cry out in exasperation. "You, Mum, John, Carson—everywhere I go today, I'm being told to eat something!"

"You didn't have to see yourself keel over after bringing your brother back to life," he informs me quietly, with the tone of fatherly concern I think only I and Mum ever hear him use.

I have no reply for that. I forgot that it was only a few days ago that we left Atlantis to find a drilling platform promising energy, that it was only a few days ago I pushed myself to the brink of death in order to draw my brother back from it. It seems like an eternity to me. But I can only imagine what it would have been like for Mum and Dad. I would have been extremely pale, wasted in appearance, as fragile looking as a wet silk shirt dipped in liquid nitrogen. I probably gasped for breath, my heartbeat was probably thready and intermittent. My eyes were probably glazed and rolled back into my head.

What a horrible thing to have to watch your only child—adopted or not—go through.

"Dad, I'm so s—"

"Don't say it," he cuts me off. "Just don't do it again."

**TBC**

**A/N**: Yay! Thank you for continuing in this journey with me. As always, please let me know what you think of it by CLICKING THE LITTLE PURPLE REVIEW BUTTON!!! My muse appreciates it to no end, and it throws fuel the fire. Besides, I basically gave you two chapters today. Be nice!


	2. Dies last, Rises First

**Dies Last, Rises First**

* * *

Hope dies last but is first to be resurrected from the ashes. Leonid S. Sukhorukov

* * *

I eye the rice pudding, mockingly suspicious, and look at Dad with a smile.

"Got a spoon?"

He grins and holds up one from somewhere on the tray. I tuck the soup bowl and spoon in one of my voluminous pockets, the thermos under my arm and take the pudding and the spoon.

"Mmm," I lick a stray bit from my lip. "They managed to do it right this time."

Dad just laughs.

By the time Dad and I make it back to the infirmary, Gilleasbachan is sitting up, the back of the bed raised and pillows behind his head and under his arms to support the casts. He and Mum seem to be—laughing?

At the sound of the door opening, Mum turns around and smiles at me. "Mairghread, I was just describing to Gilleasbachan what you were like as an infant."

"Mum!" I whine as I take the tray from Dad's hands so he doesn't have to get too close to my brother.

"It's a mother thing," Ryan comments dryly from across the room. "They can't help it."

"What is all that?" Gilleasbachan asks wonderingly, his eyes 'wide as saucers' at the sight of the tray heaped with desserts.

"It's food," I tell him. "More specifically, jello and soup."

"Am I supposed to eat _all_ that?!" he squeaks, seemingly terrified at the idea of consuming the small mountain of food.

"No, don't be silly!" I smile and use a light tone—I'm not sure what Mum did, but in the brief time I was gone, she has worked, if not absolutely wonders, certainly some magic with my brother. The pain and the haunted look are still there, but now there is also a slight smile on his face. Smile lines as well as pain lines crinkle in the corners of his eyes, making him seem less…deathlike. I set one each of peach and cherry jello on the bed table and the thermos of soup. "These are for you to try. The rest, I think, is for us to share, although," I add, "if you want more, you are welcome to have it."

He eyes the jello suspiciously. If his hands were free to move, I think he would be poking at it.

"What is 'jello'?" he asks warily.

I look to Mum. How do you describe jello? I learned from Rodney that you don't actually want to know what it is made of, but what do you say then? It's cubes of gelatinized, artificially flavored water? A sweet and not-terribly nutritious colloid?

"It's good," Dad and I say simultaneously. I glance over my shoulder to see Dad hanging about 30 feet back, leaning against the wall and eating cubes of the dark cherry jello.

I turn back to Gil. "Just trust me on this," I tell him. "It looks weird, but it tastes good."

He looks unconvinced, but doesn't resist when I offer him a small amount on a spoon. He takes it in his mouth, a strange look coming over his face. He tries to chew it, but of course, jello is too soft to really chew. He swallows, his eyebrows raised (or where on humans there are eyebrows. Wraith express emotions through minute muscle contractions, what I have heard Kate Heightmeyer call "micro expressions", more than the exaggerated expressions made possible by eyebrows.)

"This is your food?" he asks incredulously, obviously under the mistaken impression that jello is our main sustenance.

We all laugh and I explain, "No, no. we usually eat jello for dessert or a snack."

"Snack?"

Oh, right. Snacking was an unknown concept in hives such as ours. Food was an important, daily communal event. The idea of eating small amounts of food without almost the entire family was wholly alien.

"Never mind," I tell him. "I'll explain later. It's not important." I perch on the edge of the bed and cut off a small portion of jello with the spoon. "Want some more?"

"Yes please. But," he qualifies after swallowing, "I still want to know what a 'snack' is."

"Fair enough," I feed him a little more of the jello, and then indicate the broth. "Would you like some of the soup now?"

He nods vigorously. I start to pull the bowl and spoon from my pocket, but latch onto a better idea. I unscrew the outer cap of the thermos to use as a cup, but don't bother with a straw. My brother wouldn't know what to do with it, and I think he's had enough new concepts to cope with today.

"Here," I offer him the cup full of soup and he leans forward slightly to sip at, which he does and tries to gulp down the broth despite its near-scalding temperature.

"Hey hey hey! Stop!" I pull the cup back and he tries to follow but is held more securely in place by his casts than if he were manacled there. "You'll make yourself sick! Trust me," I mutter as an afterthought.

In a flash, the look of fear and desperation returns to Gilleasbachan and he cringes back into his pillows.

Damn! You just had to yell didn't you?

_I told you—you're no different from me…_

I told _you_ to shut up and leave me alone.

"Gilleasbachan, do not be afraid," Mum jumps in while I am paralyzed by guilt, reaches out and grasps his shoulder comfortingly. He winces, and then seems to relax under her touch. "Mairghread was merely concerned. You did nothing wrong."

He nods tensely, and then ask meekly, "Can I have a little more, please? I'm so hungry…"

"Of course," I fumble slightly but bring it back to his lips. "Just not so fast. There's plenty more where it came from—if you're hungry, there's always food around here."

He takes my advice and sips the broth more slowly this time, slurping slightly when he realized just how hot it is.

_He didn't take your advice, he obeyed—I've trained him well…you're his mistress now._

NO! NO! I am NOT his mistress! I am his _sister_.

_Really?_

Yes, I am his sister.

I will repeat this mantra to myself, no matter how many times it takes to shut her up.

Gilleasbachan finishes the soup, but instead of asking for more, his eyes drift heavily downward.

"Go to sleep, my brother," I whisper gently to him and lower the bed to almost flat. "I'll be here when you wake up. And so will the food."

"Promise?" he mumbles, already half-asleep.

"Yes, I promise," I tell him and draw the blankets up to cover his too thin shoulders. "You're safe. Sleep and heal."

He is asleep before I finish speaking.

I turn to Mum and give her a hug. " Thank you. I don't know what you did—"

"It was nothing, Mairghread," she assures me and hands me a jello. "I have seen many warriors scarred by long torture. I have learned that the best way to help them is to… reassure them they have a home and a family. And, when they are ready, to listen to their tale. A hope of home is often the only thing that keeps them alive; you have to make sure that this hope was not vain."

Both our eyes flicker briefly over to Dad. He was tortured in a cruel, continual way for 7 years, knowing his home was gone forever. His hope was of revenge.

"What?" he demands innocently and stand up, coming over to us and enveloping us both in a hug that lifts us off the floor and crushes the breath out of us.

"Nothing," I gasp and try to tickle him, but to no avail. He puts Mum down and throws me over his shoulder. "Hey! Put me down!"

"No." he replies and starts walking—the infirmary looks rather strange upside down. I am dropped lightly onto something soft-ish. I reorient myself to find myself on my mattress and a tuna fish sandwich staring me in the face.

"Eat."

A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews! They make my day! Let me know what you think of this chapter, sorry its so short.


	3. Laughter

**Laughter**

* * *

"Laughter is the best medicine"—proverb

* * *

I'm beginning to think that Rodney is a closet sadist. 'Compute the integral from negative infinity to positive infinity of parenthesis one over the square root of 32 plus x to the second end parenthesis times x to the 5th sine of 4/3 x dx'? 

And that's one of the simpler ones. 

On the other hand, it is a very good way to keep the queen's voice quiet in my mind. It seems she never learned how to do earth-style improper integrals, and so she can't figure out how to use it to taunt me. Really, how can you use a complex improper integral against someone unless you're goal is to make them feel mathematically incapable?

I sigh and begin writing out the formula for integration, muttering it to myself as I go. 

"Take the limit as 'a' goes to infinity of the integral of 'a'—"

"What on earth has Rodney got ye doing now?" Carson suddenly asks as he appears over my shoulder to stare at my pages full of calculus formulae. "Ye _have_ told him you're not planning on being a physicist, right?"

"Of course I have," I reply indignantly, shuffling my papers into a pile and shoving them under my pillow. "But that doesn't stop him from giving me lessons and telling me to have the problem sets done by Saturday evening."

"Ach, the lad's obsessed," Carson mutters and stands up from his crouching position. "Do ye have a minute, lass?"

"Certainly," I rise as well and follow Carson to his office. 

He closes the door behind us and leads me over to the light box where he has a series of x-ray films laid out. Arms, right and left. Legs, right and left. All of them show broken bones severely out of alignment, some partially healed and other unhealed. 

"Ye're brother is healing so nicely from his first surgery, I'd like tae start planning the next one. Dr. Santiago and Ah agree that the best course of action would be tae set his arms first, so he can feed himself, start building muscle again. Then we can go ahead and treat his legs."

"Tha-that's wonderful," I blurt out, surprised. I admit, I was somewhat expecting them to wait until they were certain that he was completely healed and taking real nourishment after the first surgery before they started the ones to reset his bones. 

"Yes, well, given the rate he's healing at—"

Shattering, tearing pain grabs hold of my bones and yanks—I collapse against Carson's desk just as a soul-piercing scream tears through the infirmary, all the more terrible because of its two-toned nature.

"Gilleasbachan!" I gasp and shove Carson away from me. "Go help him! I'm fine!"

I emphasize my point by shoving the sympathetic agony to the back of my consciousness and hobbling out of the office towards Gilleasbachan's room at an almost-literally break-neck pace.

There are already soldiers and nurses there when we arrive. Gilleasbachan is writhing in pain on his bed, his arms and legs held down firmly by the heavy casts—he has no strength to budge them even a millimetre.

"Get them off! Get them off! GET THEM OFF! PLEASE! Please, please, oh please!" his cry start panicked, grow to terrified shouts and then quiet to agonized, frightened whimpers when he sees me approach.

"Gilleasbachan, what? Get what off?" I asks with equal fervency while Dr. Beckett runs a handheld scanner over my brother.

"The casts," Carson replies for him, a look of horrified confusion and joy. "His bones are setting themselves, the plaster's in the way. I need the plaster saws—STAT!" he shouts over his shoulder to send several nurses skittering back into the infirmary proper. "Ryan, push another 10 cc of morphine, 100 solution. We're gonna have tae set the bones here and now."

I immediately rush to the head of the bed, grasping Gilleasbachan's head between my two hands and locking his eyes with mine. His pupils are wide with pain and fear, but the glassy sheen of panic dissipates when he recognizes me.

"Come on, Gil," I whisper just loud enough to be heard over the din of nurses and doctors yelling and the special cast saws revving to life. "Follow me..."

_I gently pull him into my mind, away from his body which remains in the throws of trying to right itself. I conjure up a setting for us. It is not completely necessary— we could wait in a grey no-where like Athair and I do, but I'd rather give Gil something cheerful. Thus, I draw to the front of my mind my flat. The representation is not perfect_—I have no time to really pay attention to the details, so it is a memorial conglomeration of many different days spent in the flat, slightly mess, comfortable, some knick-knacks missing and others brought to greater prominence.

_We stand in the middle of it, Gil still in his infirmary scrubs__ and projected body tensed, looking around with a look of amused confusion on his face._

"_Where are we?" he asks quietly, awed but with a slight chuckle in his voice. _

"_It's my flat—kinda," I tell him as I look around and I realize that my quick memory sketch, as it were, does not quite do our apartment justice. For one thing, I have forgotten the 'oriental runner' that covers the floor along the wall with the bedroom doors, a 'faux hallway'__ of sorts. I never did understand earth decorating styles. "I share it with Mum and Dad—and I didn't do a very good recreating it..." I add with a self-deprecating grin._

_He looks around, visibly relaxing. It's strange, how even in thought, we need sight and sound and touch._

"_I'd offer you something to drink," I say, remembering the earth custom of offering food and drink to anyone who comes by, "But there'd really be no point, would there?"_

"_It's the thought that counts," Gilleasbachan replies with a grin._

_I'm stunned. "Gil, did, did you just, __joke__?"_

"_Was it wrong?" he asks, suddenly nervous again, and I move quickly to assuage his fear. _

"_No no, it, it was perfect," I assure him, stumbling over my words. "I just, well, given the state you were in..."_

"_Oh," he says meekly and looks with interest at his feet._

"_Oh Gil, that's not what I meant to say...,"I sigh heavily, scrubbing at my face. "I-, damn!"_

"_Hey," I feel arms, bony, scraggly, comforting arms around my shoulders and I look up to see that Gil, __Gil__my brother whom I have been trying to comfort and heal is suddenly trying to comfort me. "Stop worrying about me. _I'm_ the big brother—it's my job to worry about you."_

"_But I'm the healer," I point out. "I'm supposed to be the one doing the comforting."_

"_And I'm the warrior—and the older sibling," he counters. "I'm supposed to be doing the protecting—and that includes protecting you from worry _and_ yourself."_

_I study my brother's face and for the briefest moment, I see, not the weak, sickly and broken brother I rescued from the hiveship, but the strong, hale and hearty brother who I remember holding me and helping Athair ensure that I would survive the queen's genocide campaign. For a split second, Gilleasbachan as he was flashes before my eyes, superimposed on the skeletal form of what he is—or it is the other way around? Is the strong Gilleasbachan still the real one, hidden deep inside to protect itself from the queen's rage and lust? Is the weak one a protective mask? _

_But as soon as it's there, it's gone, and Gil is __skinny and scarred as ever—or is he? Weren't his eyes more sunken before, his hair a little whiter?_

"_Mairghread," he whispers and kisses the top of my head gently—he's a good head taller than me when he stands up straight I realise with a small shock. "It is so good to see you. Look at you," he holds me out at arm's length and smiles. "You look just like Mathair."_

"_Really?" I whisper, sounding very childlike to my own ears. _

"_Yes, really," he kisses my forehead again._

"_Mairghread?"_

_Gilleasbachan and I both spin around to see Mum 'enter' the 'flat'._

"_Mum!" I greet her, understandably somewhat shocked to see her here, especially since I didn't sense her entering my mind. "What are you doing here?"_

_She smiles beatifically at me, pausing in her examination of my recreation of our apartment. "Dr. Beckett thought you might appreciated not being 'electrocuted', just to be told that he has finished setting your," she nods at Gilleasbachan, acknowledging his presence instead of speaking of__ him as if he were not present, "bones, and that they are almost completely healed."_

"_Thank you," Gil and I thank Mum simultaneously, look at each other, and then back at her. _

_Mum tilts her head to one side in acknowledgement. "Will you come now, or shall I tell Dr. Beckett that I have delivered the message, but you will be remaining here a while longer?"_

"_Tell Dr. Beckett I'm—" I begin but Gil cuts me off._

"_She'll be right there," he says firmly, giving me a look that, had I any experience with such things, would have said was a classic big-brother-brooking-no-arguments-from-his-youngest-sister look._

"_But—"_

"_No 'buts'," he nudges me gently towards Mum and starts walking towards the door, which I guess is the easiest way for someone to enter or leave my mind, my telepathic space, as it were. "You'll be there when I wake up...right?" I can't tell if he's joking or actually nervous that I won't be._

"_Yessss," I answer slowly, "But—"_

_This time he doesn't even turn around to counter me, just__ opens the door and says assertively, "I will see you soon," before stepping into the 'hallway' and I sense him leave my mind._

TBC

A/N: Gah! I meant to post this last Monday, but it kept rewriting itself! Blech. Any way, I hope you enjoy it. I've been overwhelmed by the positive response I've got from this story, but drop me a line to let me know how I'm doing! REVIEWS WELCOME!


	4. Death and Resurrection

**Death and Resurrection**

"_How did you do it?" I turn and ask Mum after Gilleasbachan has left._

"_Do... what?"she asks in reply, raising an eyebrow and looking genuinely confused. _

"_Look at him," I idiotically point at the door, the last place I saw my brother even if he is not there anymore. "He made a joke. A joke, Mum. He's been cringing and cowering like that beaten puppy John is always talking about and then you have a conversation with him about my infancy and he becomes like my brother before the queen got him. What did you do?"_

"_Ah," Mum dips her head slightly, in thought and understanding, pausing before she replies. "I simply...talked to him. Sometimes, Mairghread, healing is to be found, not in the sudden and dramatic, but the small and mundane." She holds my gaze steadily and intently. "Gilleasbachan was tortured in order to ensure that you were safe, that you would have a chance to live, with a family that loved you. I...assured him that he did not suffer in vain."_

_I stand there, thunderstruck, trying to think through this but finding my mind stopped, like jammed gears. _

"_It is not permanent, Mairghread," Mum warns me. "There will still be many times when he is afraid, when he will not understand that he is safe. But you must help him. Let him be your elder brother. Let __him__ protect __you__. Let him know that what he sacrificed himself for still exists." She embraces me tightly, enveloping me in her calmness and strength and love. "Are you ready to return now?"_

"_Yes," I whisper back, and we dissolve into the material world..._

The room is quiet now. Even the monitors connected to my brother have been silenced, so the thin green lines rise and fall in their sinusoidal patterns without the soft 'beep' when they climb to each new peak.

A hand on my shoulder, drawing me away from my brother's bed.

"Maighread."

Mum calls my name when I refuse to look away from my brother. When I do turn, there is a look of mixed understanding and concern on her face. The friend in her understands my need to be with my brother. The mother in her worries that I might lose myself.

"Ronon and I are going to speak with the Athosian elders at," she glances at the clock on the wall. "Now. I cannot be certain when we will be able to return. Sometimes these things take some time." She gives me the interrogatory gaze that only parents can manage, I think. "Will you be alright until we return?"

"Of course," I reassure her. "I'm not a child any more."

"Hmm," Mum sounds less than convinced. "Make certain you eat dinner."

"What is going on with everyone telling me to eat?!" I throw my hands in the air and walk with her to the door of the isolation room.

Mum turns sad eyes on me. "None of us want to see you that weak again," she says softly. "Get some food and some sleep. Mother's orders."

I kiss her lightly on the cheek and touch foreheads in the Athosian custom. "They will be obeyed."

Once I see her disappear from the infirmary, I return to the bedside, dragging a chair with me. A part of me knows that he will be sleeping through the night—I should go get dinner. I should go to bed. I should do homework. I should mend socks. I should be doing anything but standing here.

'_Come play with us, Gilleasbachan!'_

'_Alright, here I come, I'm gonna catch you!'_

Happy memories of my family flash through my mind, images and scenes playing like the home movies I sometimes see the marines and scientist watching. Many of the memories must be my own, from my infancy, because I seem to watching from odd angles, like I'm being held in someone's arms or am lying on the ground.

_Gilleasbachan chases some of the younger siblings around a clearing, him growling ferociously and they laughing and giggling so much I wonder they can breathe enough to outrun him. _

"Mairghread?"

I look over my shoulder to see Jennifer coming over to me, lacking a stethoscope or any of her normal physician paraphernalia. "Jennifer. Hello."

"Hi. Um, what are you still doing here?" she gives me an inquisitorial look—I'm not sure if she is laughing or serious.

"Um, my brother is still here?" I reply in the form of a question. "And I want to be near him?"

"I see," she grabs my arm and gently draws me away. "But he's out for the count tonight. And you need to eat. And sleep." She must see the protest forming on my lips, because she cuts me off. "Look, I just got off my shift. I'm hungry. Are you going to keep me company or do I have to eat by myself?"

I just roll my eyes. "Jennifer, is that your way of saying 'come eat dinner or I'll get one of the marines to throw you over his shoulder and drag you to the dining hall'?"

She pulls an affronted face. "No, of course not," she drawls and then perks up. "But still. Hey, how about you grab a couple of blankets, and I'll grab food and we'll eat on the balcony? You'll be closer to your brother than the mess hall, but you'll get dinner and a beautiful sun set." She looks at me with 'puppy-dog' eyes, and I feel my resolve crumbling.

"Fine," I sigh. "I'll see you in a few minutes." I relent because I know that resisting Jen is like trying to resist the effects of gravity—temporarily, seemingly successful, ultimately futile. I wonder if it is a skill they teach doctors or it is an attribute that good doctors have naturally.

I am, however, in no rush to leave my brother—I just found him, after all. He's finally healing. His arms and legs are finally no longer at odd, unnatural angles to themselves. I 'productively procrastinate' by carefully folding three blankets from my bed to take outside. The sun will be setting and the North western breeze is decidedly chill, even biting this time of year.

The balcony is empty and silent except for the sound of wind and waves. I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with cold, salty air. This is where I first met Jen, as person, not a surgeon behind a mask. I had wandered out here after being electrocuted and stabbed. Wait, no, that sounds far more dramatic that it was. In the morning, I had demonstrated to Woolsey the effectiveness of what John now calls my 'little black box', essentially an implanted taser. However, it was a prototype calibrated for a male twice my size, and so not only did it stop me in my tracks, but it sent me into a seizure. That night in the infirmary, I was stabbed by Lt. Gotobed. The poor man had suffered a nervous breakdown, not uncommon on Atlantis, and thought I was an enemy. He had just barely missed my heart with his hunting knife and shattered the black box, so the emergency surgery was long and intense. They handled me with kid gloves. I had just needed to get away from the noise and worrying. I had come out here. Jen found me, and became my first friend-friend.

I spread one of the blankets on the balcony near the wall for Jen and I to sit upon. The stone is cold despite being warmed by the sun all day. I leave on blanket folded for Jen to use, and I wrap myself in the other. Wrapt in the warm, soft quilt, I suddenly feel tired. Like I've been running on adrenaline all day, but no more. Is worrying really so exhausting?

The balcony doors slide open, and Jen comes out, whispering loudly, "Mary, look what they had for dinner tonight!" she smiles brightly and lowers the tray so I can see its contents. "Mac and Cheese!"

I open my mouth to say , 'so?', but when the tray between us on the blanket, I can see that it is a) another absurdly overloaded tray and b) the casserole mac and cheese and not the slimy chemical concoction they sometimes try to serve. So I instead say, "Wow, is that real cheese?"

"I don't eat it any other way," Jen says, almost proudly, and hands me the larger of the two helpings before wrapping herself in the other blanket.

I groan when I realize the true size of my portion. "Why is everyone so keen on me eating McKay-sized meals today?" I mutter, stabbing the noodles in my frustration and beginning to eat. "Just because I over-extended myself a little and fainted, doesn't mean I'm about to die of starvation."

Jen chokes on her first bite of real mac and cheese. "You mean they didn't tell you?" she coughs out and then must see the look of confusion on my face. "Oh my, they didn't..."

"Didn't what?" I prod her, putting my food down and trying to capture her gaze. It is difficult to establish a true mind-link with humans, but if I can just capture their attention a little bit, I can usually increase my empathic tendencies with them, besides telling when they are lying or hiding something. She looks at me briefly, but then out to sea. "Jen, I could tell you're hiding something from me even if I weren't empathic."

Jen looks back at me, her eyes sad and hard at the same time. "You _died_ Mairghread. Three times."

She has to be joking. A sick ploy to get me to eat more. I've always been to thin for most of their liking, they don't understand that I'll probably never gain weight. I would have noticed if I were dead. How can you die three times anyway? "I _what_?"

"You died, Mary," Jen repeats, softly. "I'm sorry, I thought they told you."

"How can I have _died_? I'm right here! I touched you, I've been eating all day, I completed a page and a half of hellish calculus! How the hell could I have died _once_ let alone three times?" I babble insanely, my mouth running while I refuse to process this.

"Your heart stopped, Mairghread," she explains, reaching out to grab my hand, which I realize is trembling. It doesn't have my permission to tremble, to mock my inner turmoil with its mimicry! "Once in the jumper as it came into Atlantis, and twice more in the infirmary before we could start the intravenous feeding. It was like your body didn't have enough reserves to keep you alive. You didn't just over-extend yourself a little, Mary. Your body _was_ starved, you gave so much to your brother."

Starved. Died. Three times. The exhaustion. Everyone's worry. Mom trying to stop me and Dad rough housing.

_You didn't think I wouldn't get my revenge? _the queen's voice mocks me...

Starved.

_How wonderful would that have been? He wakes up to find his sister dead! Everything he ever suffered, meaningless! Perfection!_

I can't let it happen again. Its too dangerous. Starvation means hunger, hunger means

_Death! _

"Mary! Mairghread! Calm down!" I hear Jen's words, but distantly and distorted—I vaguely wonder if they're even English.

Starvation means hunger, hunger means death

_If you had died, I'm sure he would have followed..._

Death three times

_How many would you have needed? Maybe only one if it had been that troglodyte you call father..._

Hunger, need to feed, death

_Murderer!_

Three times...

"Mairghread, you need calm down! You're hyperventilating," hands take my food, push my head towards my knees...

Need the food. Can't starve. Starve means hunger, hunger means—

Can't breathe! Not enough room to bring in air...

"That's it," Jen's voice croons; a hand on my back moves in slow circles; I am forced to breathe slowly in order to breathe at all. "I guess this is why nobody told you."

**TBC**

Cainwen: oh dear, things never quite go as planned do they?

Cullough: WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY CHILDREN?

Cainwen:(cringing) I'm not doing anything, I swear! Ask them!

Steve: WHY AREN'T YOU WRITING?

Cainwen:(cringes further into chair) I have papers due! My future depends on them!

Steve: Your future depends on this! WRITE!

Cainwen: yes sir! People, please review! Distract these two for me! Please!


	5. Sleep No More

**Sleep No More**

Somehow, I'm back in my room. Somehow, Jen got me to eat everything she put in front of me. Somehow she convinced me to go to bed, in my own room. Somehow, she got me into pajamas. Somehow, I'm under the covers, lying down, half asleep. My arm aches vaguely—I think Jen gave me an injection, somewhere along the way…maybe it has something to do with this odd, detached feeling?

I don't try to fight the drowsiness. I don't think I could if I wanted to. I give in. Perhaps there will be peace there…

"_You wanted peace?" the queen rasps. "What right have you to peace?"_

"_Go away!" I scream, even as she appears before my eyes, a jagged knife in her hand—a hunting knife. I realize in horror that my hands are tied, and they have been hauled over a hook somewhere above my head. My feet are bound, connected to a loop in the floor. I am helpless. "You're not real! Go away!"_

"_Not real?" she repeats nonchalantly, disbelievingly, waving the knife in front of her. Suddenly her free hand comes up in an arc, slapping me across the face with a force that snaps my head around and stings in a way that is all too real. "How about now? Am I real now?"_

"_NO!" I shout back at her. "You're a nightmare! Nothing!"_

_Her face twists into a mask of hatred and she plunges the knife in my gut. Fire erupts in the core of my being…Jagged edges against soft flesh…blood gushing out around the knife handle. She tastes my blood delicately. "Am I real now?"_

"NO!" I scream and shoot bolt upright in bed. My breathing comes in ragged gasps.

_I'll be waiting, little one. Just because I sleep, why should you?_

I can't sleep. She'll be waiting. I can still feel the knife in my belly…

_Something to remember me by…_

The rush of fear-induced adrenaline is enough to over-power Jen's drug, whatever it was. My mind is blazingly clear, or it would be if the queen would shut up.

I can't sleep. She'll kill me, and I don't know if I'd wake up. It's the downside to being such a strongly telepathic being, my mind having such an incredible power over my body. Convince my mind strongly enough I'm dead, and I will be.

I thrust back the bed clothes, jump out of bed and almost fall flat on my face.

Okay…so Jen's drugs aren't completely out of my system.

I need something to help me stay awake. Sure, the adrenaline will probably keep me up tonight, but what about tomorrow night? All I need to do is fall asleep for a few minutes, and I'm the queen's.

How does Rodney stay up? Besides adrenaline and an almost constant sugar high?

Coffee.

I need coffee. All I'd need is a sip and I'll be up all night.

Somebody will notice I'm not sleeping.

Not necessarily, I muse as I stumble over to my dresser and pull out a pair of soft pants and long sleeve, black tee. I'll remember to change before I see Gil again, but for now it's nice and soft.

Atlantis is huge, and I already have a penchant for finding cool, damp corners in the subbasements for naps. It's probably not the best thing for dispelling some of the mythological associations that surround me, but it's nice not to feel hot and dry for a little while. I can say I've been sleeping there.

Where am I going to get coffee?

It'd be worth more than the lives of an entire science department if I stole some of Rodney's coffee, and there is no way in this universe that he would give me any—he was there for the Coffee Incident.

I know that coffee pots are as numerous as the people in Atlantis, but I've never worked one before, and I don't think I'm in any condition to figure it out.

The mess hall has coffee. Lots of coffee.

I glance at the clock. The shifts changed an hour ago—people who were on the last shift will have eaten and gone. People from this shift won't be on snack/coffee runs yet. If I'm careful, I should be fine.

I take every back-way, service tunnel, and little-used hall I know of to reach a nearly empty mess hall. Its not the people in general I'm afraid of—its that I'll run into someone who knows me enough to read the minute expressions of my face, who could see how utterly panicked I am.

My feet stumble over one another and the floor seems to be rolling beneath me. The sooner I get some coffee, the better.

At last, I reach the mess hall and peak my head around the corner. A few, half-asleep people are out on the balconies and a server stands behind the food line, on the off chance somebody wants to be served.

But no one is near the coffee.

I try to walk quietly, and fortunately no one seems to notice me as I grab a mug off the shelf and splash a half inch of regular coffee in the bottom, followed by another inch or so of decaf and top it off with milk to make it drinkable. I slip out of the mess hall unnoticed, or at least unremarked and head back towards my quarters—there's a lift around the corner that can take me fairly close. I pause for a moment and gulp down half a mug of milky coffee, almost immediately feeling the stimulating effect of the caffeine.

Just as I reach the lift and the door opens, a paroxysm of pain grips my chest and I fall into the lift, hitting the control panel at random. The lift whirls away, and the pain subsides only to claw at my heart once the doors open again, revealing the deep subbasement of Atlantis.

"Hello again"

I try to run and end up falling when I hear the queen's voice near my ear. The mug falls from my hand and shatters on the stone floor, coffee cascading over shards of clay. I scramble to get away from the lift and the queen, cutting myself on the broken mug.

The queen is alive—I'm not asleep, I know it, but here she is, walking towards me, knife in hand.

She's alive.

A/N: I'm so sorry it took this long. Life is a bitch, she really is. I'm sorry this chapter is so short, but its been languishing in the back of my mind a while. Also, Gilleasbachan and Cullough are getting restless (as am I) to have their stories told, so I'll be switching perspectives from now on, between Mairghread, Gilleasbachan and Cullough. Who's talking will be noted right after the chapter title.


	6. Once Upon a Midnight

**Once Upon a Midnight**

_POV: Gilleasbachan_

* * *

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,  
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,  
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,  
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

-"The Raven" by Edgar Allen Poe

* * *

I leave Mairghread's mind, her conjured apartment of warmth and contentment, retreating into my own mind. Can I still call it retreating? I did once. Once, my mind was a place to retire to , an escape. Can I fool myself into thinking that it still is?

At the very least, I am alone. The queen, damn her soul to eternal perdition the like never imagined by living soul, is conspicuous in her absence, thank the Spirits.

My mind is rather dark, these days. It was too painful to let light in here after Mathair and everyone else died, after Athair failed and we hid Mairghread. The queen—

No, don't think about her. She's dead. At least, Mairghread says she is, and I'm inclined to trust her—she certainly believes the queen is dead. I will have to ask this John person though. I love my little sister, but I could see it in her eyes—she'd never seen death, never killed. John, I could trust him to know with surety.

I wonder, would light still hurt? I know Mairghread is afraid to touch me, afraid that I'll shatter like a hot glass in cold water. But I'm stronger than that. I was prepared…for some things. I had been warned of what would happen; I divided myself. I hid most of myself away, concealed the warrior and left a shell, a shell that became a coward. A mind divided; I was able to bury so much of myself, I had forgotten who I was.

"How could you forget, Gilleasbachan? How could you forget who you are?"

I hear a weary voice, and when I turn around, Father is watching me, waiting for me.

"I had to, Dad," I tell him. "I couldn't let her have it."

He nods. He is so much older than I remember him. His hair is white now, like marble. It was just silvered back then, still streaked with black. Its messy too—matted and tangled, ragged. The father I remember would never have let himself look like this.

I can't help but notice, too, the scars.

An uneasy silence falls between us. Our parting, all those millennia ago, was anything but good. I was angry with him, for failing to protect our family, but mostly angry at myself. I had known, had been told exactly what was going to happen, and I didn't, I couldn't stop it. I was grieving for my family. I know he was grieving, too—it was his family. He had lost his soulmate—had he even known he was alive anymore?

What do we say? _How are you_ seems…trite. Pointless. Heartless. _What happened to you_ would work—but how could either understand? _What can I do to help you_…I was I could say that. He looks so hurt, so tired, so sad. But how could I help him? I can barely help myself.

What is this now, that tugs at both our minds, demanding our attention, saving us from ourselves?

"Mairghread," we whisper together and both begin struggling towards where her mind calls out to us.

We break through the darkness and fog of our own minds, into…where is this? Mairghread cowers against a stone wall, the queen crouching over her, cursed knife in hand. There is only a watery darkness here, no real light. The walls and floor and ceiling are some kind of black stone. On the floor, there seems to be the remains of a broken cup and its contents.

I am torn—I want to run, run as far and as fast as I can away from the queen, and I want to run to protect my sister. I want to kill the queen myself—perhaps then I can find peace within my own soul, reintegrate so I am no longer divided. But, do I want that? Do I want the coward a part of me?

_Run. Run as far and as fast as you can_. The coward

_Stay and fight. What kind of a warrior are you if you can't face a ghost? _The warrior.

"Get back," father commands the ghost of the queen. "You are dead, you have no power over the living."

"Athair," Mairghread whimpers, and I notice for the first time the blood—it covers her hands, it drips from her nose and ears, it shimmers on her lips. I look at her eyes: they are wild, pupils dilating and contracting with no reason.

"Gilleasbachan," my father looks at me sharply. "Protect your sister."

I glare at him. How can he say that?! For what else have I suffered all these centuries?! How does he think I got these scars? For what does he think I endured this bitch's torture?

Anger propels me forward—I grab the bitch by the hair, and throw her away from my sister. I can't feel my fear any more—only hatred and rage. The coward she created in me is knocked back and silenced.

"Get away from her, you whore!" I shout, feeling stronger just for this simple action. How many times had she thrown me around? Taunted me with what I had become? What she made me?

"She's _mine_," the thing hisses from its place on the floor. I kick it viciously.

"I'll see you in hell first," I spit on it and kick it further away from my sister. With a screech, it dissolves into the air.

"Athair," I hear Mairghread gasping on the floor. I want to run to her, but my anger is spent, and so am I. I can only stumble to her, weak as a newborn akheina. "How…?"

Yes, I wonder to myself, how? The whore vanished—she was not real, she was only a phantom of my sister's mind. But Mairghread bleeds, she gasps for breath and struggles to sit up.

What is that split on the ground…? A thought pricks the edge of my mind…

"Mairghread, what have you had tonight?" I demand as I finally come close enough to kneel next to her. "Drugs, food, what?"

"What?" she gasps back, clutching her stomach and groaning. I reach out and touch my fingers to the pulse point in her neck—her heart is racing, tripping over itself in its hurry…now slowing…now speeding up…

Where did I see this before, damn it?!

_Did you really think that poison could steal you from me_…

That's it! Aogh—he had been another 'favorite' of _her_. He hadn't had time to prepare before she took him—he was cracking within months. But he could see what was happening to him—he didn't want to be a willing participants in her games. He tried escape, anyway he could. When he was locked up, he cut his wrists, tried to starve himself, fought the guards hoping to push them just a little too far—that bitch saw what he was doing, stopped him every time. But then, one day she had put him in the medical bay, for reasons only she knew. When his guard wasn't watching, he grabbed the nearest two drugs and pumped himself full of them. I was there, watching from the corner; I had tried to cut my throat that morning.

By sheer accident or good luck, he grabbed a powerful sedative and a powerful stimulant meant to be used on the humans the queen tagged and released as Runners. As it turns out, a combination that didn't seem to bother the humans was deadly for wraith. The drugs turned to acid in his veins and inhibited the enzymes that allowed him to heal himself. It made him hallucinate, his dreams and subconscious melding with conscious reality; it made his heart race and when he hallucinated being tortured, his heart pumped so hard that arteries ruptured in his chest and his brain. He bled out in seconds.

I can't let that happen to Mairghread. Not after all that's happened.

"Mairghread," I speak more gently, trying to get her to calm down. "Do you remember taking anything to help you sleep? Anything to make you stay awake? Both, neither?"

"What are you thinking, Gilleasbachan?" Father asks, coming closer, his own steps shuffling. I gesture for him to hush and wait a minute.

Mairghread is panting and gagging, but her heart is slowing down, ever so slightly, under my fingertips.

"Jen…gave me a (gasp) sedative (choke) I couldn't stay asleep (gurgle) queen would've (wheeze) killed me. (cough) got coffee to (gasp) stay awake," she struggles to tell me, head tilting to the side like a waterlogged ship, her eyes wandering and jerking all over the place. I take her face in my scarred hands and make her look at me.

"Mairghread, coffee. It has a stimulant in it?" I try to keep the fear and urgency out of my voice.

Her eyes flicker to my face then away. "Yes."

"Damn," I mutter to myself and push myself away from my sister. Father crouches down next to me and I silently share my suspicions.

_What can we do?_ He asks, his fear for his youngest and only daughter making even his thoughts tremble.

"We have to bring the humans to her," I whisper. "Maybe they have a way to clean it out of her blood. Or at the very least keep her alive till her body can clear itself."

"How?" Mairghread is beginning to tremble violently. "I'm in (gasp) the basement. They (gurgle) don't know I'm missing."

"I'll bring them," I tell her with more surety than I felt. I know my body is drugged, deeply asleep and uncooperative even at the best of times. "Just stay calm, sweetheart."

A protest seems to form on her lips, but it dies as Father kneels down next to her and begins stroking her hair soothingly.

I drift back to my own mind. So much for the easy part. Separating me, in my mindspace, from my physical self, is a thick cloud of opiate sleep. I have never tried to break through such a cloud before—I have always hung well back, viewing it as a rampart that separated me from a living hell. Now it is a barrier that might kill my sister.

I begin to push through it, but it is like trying to move through clay. The further I go, the harder it becomes. Each second is another second for the acid to weaken Mairghread's veins, another second for her to fear, to take a step closer to death.

NO!!

I scream and shove myself through the barrier, bursting through—

And I am in my body, eyes closed, limbs heavier than lead. I swallow thickly and struggle to open my eyes, to make my tongue work. A faint beeping sound becomes louder, more rapid.

"Gilleasbachan? What are ye tryin' tae do, lad?" the familiar accent ripples across my ears as though one of us were underwater. I force my eyes open and work my mouth, but only nonsense comes out.

"What? What are ye sayin'?"

"Mah—Mary—Mairghread…in…buh..base…basement…sss…sick…p-puh-poison," I say each word forming slowly on my lips, my heart pounding with the effort to simply stay awake. "F-find. H-h-help. Please."

I begin to lose the fight against the drugs as I hear the accented voice call worriedly for help.

"Rodney? Ah need ye tae scan fer Mairghread. Yes, now! In the basement….ye've found her? Good…Kate, I need a team now, subbasement corridor 13, section L……"

**TBC**

**A/N**: two chapters in one day. Doesn't quite make up for my long absence, but it's the best I can do. Hopefully more soon. More reviews equal faster updates. Please review!!


	7. Where Are You?

**Where Are You?**

(POV: Cullough)

Gilleasbachan fades back into his own mind, and I am left here with Mairghread, helpless.

What can I do for her? I can only touch what is in her mind; my body is thousands of lightyears away in a hiveship, dying slowly in closet.

Can I even say my heart is here? Did not Seàrlaid claim my heart? Did she not take it with her to the Land Beyond the Stars? At most, my heart is torn, shattered like the mug on the floor, a piece here, a piece with my son, a piece with John Sheppard, many pieces held in Seàrlaid's hands, wherever she is.

"Athair?" Mairghread whispers through bloody lips, her eyes unfocused and her body trembling, no, shaking, violently. She is a child, alone and scared in the dark. That one word, 'athair', father, a plea for succor, for solace.

And what can I offer her? I reach out to stroke her hair, but my hand has no more substance than a thought. She turns towards it, but it is not real. I cannot gather her in my arms and save her. I cannot protect her from the queens, quick or dead; I cannot protect her from sorrow or dream; I cannot protect her from herself.

Her eyes drift closed, as though it is too much effort to keep them open for her. "Athair, where are you?" she asks, so quietly I almost miss it.

"I am right here," I answer, wishing I could hold her tight and not let go, or even better would be to take the poison in my own body.

"No," she slurs, "Where are you? Why don't you come here?"

Behind me, I hear the swish of doors, and a sharp clatter of wheels and feet.

"Mairghread!" a man shouts; I recognize the voice, or the accent. It's the man who thanked me for saving John—Doctor Beckett, I think Mairghread called him.

I step out of the way before someone can disconcertingly walk through me. My daughter is in good hands; now I must talk to my son. I do not think she can really hear me anymore, but nonetheless I tell her softly, "I will see you again soon, little one." I fade out of Mairghread's mind and find my way back to Gilleasbachan's.

The landscape is rocky, the light a dark grey twilight. I see my son sitting by a small pool of water, his head bowed, his arms wrapped around his drawn up knees. I walk over and sit beside him, trying to take in the sight of my son whom I thought long dead. He's…aged. His hair is silvered, his face lined with pain 

and care. And yet, as I look at him, the aged face flickers and is replaced with the youthful face I remember. Two faces, over lapping each other.

"What did you do, Gilleasbachan?" I ask quietly, almost dreading an answer.

He continues to stare into the murky water of his own imagining. "What do you mean?"

"What did you do to yourself? I look at you, and it is as if I am seeing not one, but two. One is the son I raised and watched play with his brothers and sisters, watched become a master swordsman, watched become an honorable warrior. The other is old, broken and frightened of his own shadow. Which is my son?" I ask, not bothering to conceal the distress I feel as I watch the faces flicker and dance before me.

Suddenly, there really are two sons sitting next to me, the son I knew and the son the queen created.

"Both," they reply together. Gilleasbachan the warrior rises and begins to pace behind Gilleasbachan the prisoner, who flinches every time his younger counterpart moves behind him and out of his sightlines.

"How?" the word comes out…fearful. What can it mean that both warrior and prisoner are my son? That both are in his mind, but separate entities?

"I was warned," the warrior growls darkly, still pacing like the hunter he is. "Told what would happen to me, that I would have to nonetheless survive. Promised that if I did, I'd see the fall of the queens."

"You didn't answer my question," I point out sharply, causing the prisoner to dive under the rock ledge and cower there while the warrior continues his pacing. "How? And who warned you?"

"Who do you think?" he snaps, shooting a glare at me through a curtain of dark hair. "Durhan told me," he says more softly. "He was little, two, maybe three. You and Mother were meeting with another hive, talking about the rumors of the queens growing strength.

"He found me in the engine room, I was tinkering with something or running a diagnostic or something. He crawled into my lap and told me very seriously that almost everyone in the hive was going to die, but I had to live. I had to be a survivor," he stops his frantic pacing and sits heavily on the rock ledge, staring at his feet.

"He told me what would happen. What the queen would do to me. _He saw it_. He was barely able to walk and talk and he _saw _the torture. Or, a part of him did," Gilleasbachan begins tracing a pattern in the dust. "He didn't anything about the torture the next morning, or about the death. Just the message: I have to survive. Thank the Spirits…" he trails off.

I resist the impulse to touch him, to reach out and gather him into my arms. He is an adult, a warrior: this is the pain he feels. Seeing someone weaker than himself bear: a warriors burden; knowing the atrocities of the future and not being able to alter their course.

Besides, which son would I hold? The one who silently struggles with his guilt or the one who is trembling in fear?

"Did he also tell you how to do…this?" I ask quietly, not sure what answer I want to hear.

"In a way," the warrior rubs the back of his neck wearily. "A few nights later, he woke me up and told me, 'it is not possible to survive. Become two, sacrifice one, the other survives.'" He gives a mirthless bark of laughter. "You know how he could speak after one of his dreams."

Indeed I do. After some of his dreams, which never were shared like ordinary dreams, Durhan would speak not with his own voice, but a voice that was…old. Wise. Sorrowful. Not at all like the cheerful little boy who played with his siblings in the woods where we camped.

"So you divided yourself," I continue the story. "Found a way to cut off a part of yourself to throw to the dogs so the rest of you could escape unmaimed."

He snorts. "You make it sound so easy."

"I imagine it was very painful."

He runs a hand through his obsidian hair. "Yes. I tried for a long time, without much success. It became…easier when Durhan died…even easier when I found out what happened to my sisters. By the time Mother died, I wasn't one person anymore." He jerks a thumb at his old, scared and scarred double under the ledge. "He was here too."

There is a heavy silence. I try to make sense of all this. Too much is happening. I am old and tired and my world is being turned upside down and shaken like a basket to make sure nothing is stuck in the wickerwork. I want to help my children, but how can I help them? I am far away; I cannot help myself; their situations are so far removed from anything I have ever heard about, let alone experienced.

These are excuses. Fathers may not have excuses for not helping their children.

"Can it be undone?" the question sounds raspy, hushed and tentative. They both look at me. "Can you…heal the breach?"

"Why?" the warrior spits. "He's a coward."

"He's a part of you," I remind him sternly. "You are strong—you can turn his weakness to strength."

He scoffs and gets up to pace again, his posture haughty and angry and defensive. "There is _no_ strength to be gained from his kind of weakness," he spits over his shoulder, stalking over the wasteland like a confined predator.

"For your sister then," I throw my final argument at his feet, daring him to ignore it. "Would you have her have to deal with this? First you, then him in control of your body? Would you make Mairghread deal with that?"

He stops his pacing, a look of surprise, then anger and betrayal, and at last resignation and protectiveness. He reaches under the rock ledge and draws out his frail counterpart. They lock eyes, and for a long moment they simply stare at one another, as though trying to measure the other's resolve. After an eternity, both whisper, "For Mairghread."

They pull each other into an embrace, the one melting into the other until only one son stand before me. Not yet fully integrated, but unified. Some parts are clearly the warrior, others the prisoner. A few parts seem to blend the two. I can only hope that one day, all parts blend and my son can be whole again.

_Grandfather, time to wake up._ I feel someone shaking my body, thousands of light years away and I turn to go.

"Father," Gilleasbachan's voice, young and old, hopeful and sad, halts my retreat. "Where are you?"

"Why?" I ask, slowly turning around. The question seems so out of place, yet this is the second time I have been asked it tonight.

"Where are you?" he repeats, capturing my gaze and holding it like I was once able to do with him.

"Can you come here?" he clarifies. "Can you come and see Mairghread?"

"Why?" I ask, turning away. The shaking is becoming more insistent—I must return to the hive soon. "She has a father and mother. Now she has her brother." I turn back. "Why should she have to see me? I am dying, Gilleasbachan. Should she have to watch her father die?"

"Should you have to die without seeing your children one last time?" he counters as I begin to walk away, back to my body which is being shaken more and more. "Mairghread needs you. Her human father and mother are good, the best you could hope for, but they are _human_. And they will never be, can never be you. They can tell her she is lovely—only you can tell her that she is as beautiful as Mother when she was young. Are you really going to deny her seeing you one last time? Can you face Mother and tell her you didn't see your daughter in the flesh?"

Gilleasbachan always was very good at convincing people of things. I look back at my son and sigh, "I will try."

Fading back into the physical world is like being thrown into a cold and oily lake.

I lay down to sleep in a disused and mostly forgotten closet—it is mostly used to store or hide old coats. I open my eyes to see a young face staring down at me, looking relieved.

"You're awake. Good," he whispers and helps me to sit up. I almost hear my joints creaking in protest, and the wounds I received escaping the Genii ache fiercely; they did not have time to heal properly. "I was afraid you had let yourself go too long without nourishment again."

"I did not mean to cause you concern," I push against the wall till I am standing; the young one keeps a firm grasp on my arm, his face betraying his worry. "You should be more careful, young one. Your countenance shows too clearly your mind."

"You need nourishment, grandfather," he states firmly. "If you will not, I will."

"I am fine," I try to reassure him, but he clearly does not believe me. He was among the group that found me on the planet Sheppard left me on; he has quietly been helping me ever since. I fear that he will not last long in the hive: his heart is compassionate, a trait which is deadly to possess if it is not well concealed. The mere fact that he calls me "grandfather" as a term of respect could be enough to have him killed.

"How are your children?" he asks, his free hand snaking towards my chest. I catch it before he gets close enough to feed me energy.

"Do not try to distract me, young one," I admonish him. "I am a father too many times over."

"If you wont feed, what do you want me to do? Let you starve?" he counters scoldingly. "What would I tell them?"

I am loathe to involve him any more than I already have; just the aid he has given me so far is punishable by death. Asking more could condemn him to several deaths.

"You are wanting to ask me something. Ask," he orders me sternly. "We both know I have no future on this hive."

I sigh. It is true. Yet I hate to ask him: I do not want more blood on my hands than is already there. How many deaths am I responsible for? I do not know anymore, I have lost count. In my dreams I drown in blood.

"I am dying, young one. I would like to see my children once more before I take that journey," I tell him, momentarily relaxing my grip on his arm. He reacts instantly, slamming his hand into my chest and sending a surge of life into my body; I arch my back as the energy crackles through me, only his hand preventing me from falling. He pulls away slightly and I am left gasping, but feeling stronger.

"Do you know where to find them? Can you get there through a Ring?" he asks, and I nod. I do not know where Atlantis is, but I remember the address to the planet I left Mairghread on—neutral territory to meet. "Let me see what I can do."

TBC

A/N: Sorry, this is a kind of weird interlude. More to come. PLEASE REVIEW!!


	8. Second Chances

**Second Chances**

(Gilleasbachan POV)

* * *

Even as I walk through the woods, I know I am dreaming. This is not a conscious creation to pass the time while my body rests; my subconscious mind has kidnapped my conscious mind and dropped it here. And yet,_ knowing_ that I am dreaming doesn't stop me from dreaming. Really strange, if one takes the time to think about it.

The woods are thick, primordial, dark like the dead of a stormy night. The air is cloying, as if a fog bank has rolled in from some distant northern sea and taken residence in the trees. The ground beneath my feet is a dense carpet of decaying leaves, muffling the sound of my step and releasing a loamy, almost stifling smell. A heavy silence covers the forest, daring something to make a sound.

Something is hunting me.

Me? No, the thing I carry in my arms. Suddenly curious, I unwrap a part of the bundle—something must be inside, because who would stalk a lump of leaves and rags?—and uncover a tiny face. A baby?

I wake with a start, and curse under my breath. Why do I _always_ have to wake up before the end of a dream?!

Resigning myself to the frustrating inevitability of waking up to a new day, I can at least cheer myself with the fact that I am waking up, and in a bed of all places! It's a welcome change.

Force of habit makes me take a quick stock and inventory of myself. All body parts accounted for; moderate pain nudges the edge of my mind, too distant to be concerned about. Nothing seems broken or in the wrong place, though something seems to be stuck in the back of my right hand. Hunger has settled into a slow burning fire in my chest, but it is nothing that cannot be solved with a good meal.

This state of affairs hasn't occurred in millennia.

It takes some effort, but I manage to drag one hand to my face and slowly rub the sleep from my eyes. I let the hand fall down to my chest and blink lazily, letting the world come into focus in its own good time.

The ceiling seems very…high. And one wall seems to slope inward halfway up and looks abnormally shiny. I wonder if there is a problem with it.

I roll my head to one side, trying to ease the stiffness in my neck. The more I move, the easier it becomes and the more the heaviness lifts. I try to move my other arm, but it seems to be tethered to something, so I don't force it. The blankets covering my legs might as well be made of lead for all the movement they allow me.

"Gilleasbachan?"

I roll my head the other direction and see Mairghread's adoptive mother—Teyla?—walking towards me. She is smiling sweetly and…diplomatically? She carries herself with grace and self-possession, simultaneously feral and feminine.

"Hello, Teyla," I reply, not surprised when my voice sounds broken and raspy. I sweep the bedside table with my eyes, hoping for something to drink. Now that I'm talking, I realize how very thirsty I am.

Teyla seems to recognize the gesture and produces a cup from out of my sight line. She pushes something on the side of the bed, and I find myself being sat upright. I try to take the cup in my hand, but I can't get a steady grip on it, so she kindly holds it steady while I drink the water greedily before she pulls it away, murmuring something about making myself sick.

I clear my throat. "Thank you." Better. Still somewhat rasping, but at least it's the right two octaves. The events of last night rush to the forefront of my mind; I struggle to sit up and ask breathlessly, "Mairghread? Is she alright?"

Teyla calmly grasps my shoulders and pushes me back onto the bed, smiling serenely.

"She is sleeping," she says soothingly. "Dr. Beckett was able to clean the poison from her blood; he says she is healing well, but will not wake until this afternoon or tomorrow morning."

"But she is alive?" Is it a redundant question? Yes. But do I need to hear the straightforward answer? Yes.

"And well. You have my word," Teyla tells me reassuringly. She tilts her head to one side. "And what of yourself? How are you faring this morning?"

"Much better," I answer truthfully, though her eyes seem to disbelieve me slightly. "I have not felt so well in countless years."

"At least he dinna say 'I'm fine'," I hear the accented voice I know to be Dr. Beckett's comment as the man himself comes into my field of vision. "Then I'd know he was dying." He winks at me; I am thoroughly confused by the gesture. The smile on his face indicated amusement, but the way he made certain that Teyla could not see him wink indicates something conspiratorial, secret. What does this mean?

Teyla smiles gracefully. "I will leave you to Dr. Beckett's care," she tells me and briefly lays a hand on my shoulder reassuringly. "Is there something I could bring you later?"

"My sister."

Her smile broadens, and she gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "We shall see what Dr. Beckett thinks, but I will try," she nods slightly to myself, then Dr. Beckett, who is pulling on some kind of skin-tight gloves. "I will see you later," she says before leaving through the swishy doors.

"Now then," Dr Beckett quickly pulls up on my right eyelid and shines a bright light in my eye, causing a sharp pain to stab into my skull before he repeats the same procedure with my other eye. "How are ye doing? Any pain?"

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge and fear, white hot fear, races through my veins, learned instinct pricking painfully at those words: _any pain?_ It's a trick question. If I say 'yes' the torture of the day will be chemical; if I say no, I will be chosen to test the new and painful restraint positions she thought of last night and the torture of the day will be knives, hooks, abrasives and all other manner of things.

No, not _she_, _he_. Dr. Carson Beckett. A healer. Not the bitch. _Calm down_.

"Gillesbachan?" a hand on my shoulder and I jump despite myself. _Pull yourself together_. I try to steady my breathing and my heartbeat, forcing myself to focus on Dr. Beckett's concerned face. "Ye're alright, lad?"

"Yes," I answer breathlessly, my untethered hand crawling along the bedclothes to the rail and holding onto it as a lifeline. "Just a bad memory."

His frown deepens. "Did I say somethin' wrong?"

Yes. Intensely wrong. Find another way to ask me if I'm in pain.

Don't be a coward.

"No," I swallow my fear and force it away. "It was just a memory. The pain is minor."

He looks completely unconvinced, but seems to let it go, for now. He taps the back of my right hand and starts rummaging through a drawer in one of the dresser-like things that surround my bed. "How would ye like ta see how ye do without that IV in the back of yer hand?" he asks nonchalantly, producing a square of fluffy white fabric and a roll of something.

I look at my right hand for the first time and note that my suspicions of something being stuck in my hand and tethering me to the bed were correct. A clear tube from a liquid-filled sac disappears into one of the protruding veins on the back of my hand. As I watch in fascination, Dr Beckett disconnects the tube from the sac, covers the insertion site with the fabric and pulls out the tube, which I now see is connected to a sharp metal needle. He tosses the tubing into a bin behind him and using his free hand pulls a strip off the roll. It turns out to be some kind of sticky synthetic fabric, which he uses to secure the fluffy white fabric to my skin.

There is a strange disconnect, watching Dr Beckett pull the tube from my hand. I have watched in fascinated horror as the bitch has done unthinkable things to me, unable to tear my eyes away until I pass out from the pain. Watching someone trying to heal me seems…alien. It has a dreamlike quality which made even the slight pinch as the needle withdrew seem…unreal. Like it was someone else's hand.

"Gilleasbachan? Are ye with me lad?"

I snap back to the present, realizing that I must have gotten lost in my thoughts. "I'm sorry, Dr Beckett. Did you ask me something?"

"I asked if ye'd like to try sitting in a chair for a bit," he smiles and repeats patiently. In his eyes, I can see that this is nothing new. He is used to dealing with the disoriented, the badly hurt and the very sick, all of whom usually need things repeated multiple times before they understand. "Ye might try ta eat some breakfast while yer at it," he suggests encouragingly. Clearly, he is also used to coaxing people to eat.

Sit in a chair? When was the last time I sat in a chair?

"Certainly," I say, answering both questions with one word. Or at least, I hope he assumes I am answering both questions.

"Great," he seems to sigh as he smiles and waves in someone from the hallway outside the room. The face of the man who walks in seems familiar, though I cannot be certain. "Ryan, if ye'll take that side, we'll see if we can't get him ta that chair just there," Dr. Beckett directs as he lowers the rail on the right side of the bed and folds the covers neatly back, freeing my legs of their weight.

My legs. They are so…thin. Is there any muscle left on them at all? The pants I have been dressed in seem to be filled with sticks, not limbs, to which some morbid idiot has attached two poor imitations of feet, made of sticks and leather scraps. I reach out to touch them, and feel hands touch my thighs. Yes, those sticks are my legs. The joke feet are mine; if I wiggle my toes, the stick toes wiggle too.

Pinkish-tan hands pick up my bluish-green hands and move them to my sides, positioning them so I can use my arms to help lever myself off the bed. The hands then gently move my legs, guiding them over the side of the bed and causing me to turn to the right. The world tilts disconcertingly and my vision swims, refusing to refocus and casting the world into blurred shadows. Another pair of hands reaches out to support my back as I sway uncertainly. The first hands leave, and I feel some kind of soft shoe being put on my feet.

A moment later, the hands return, one firmly holding my right arm while the other rests supportively on my back. The other hands shift to mirror the first.

"Come on then, lad, let's get ye ta yer feet," Dr Beckett commands cheerfully and the hands lift and guide me off the bed till my feet touch the floor. But my legs are sticks and cannot bear the weight; my knees buckle and if not for the hands, I would have fallen to the floor. Dr Beckett's arm drops from my shoulder to wrap around my waist and drag me back up. Ryan moves my arm so it is draped over his shoulder. Between the two of them, they completely support my weight and keep me upright.

"Alright then, one foot at a time," Dr Beckett says pleasantly but firmly, seemingly unfazed by my weakness, or the fact that he is in such close contact to a wraith.

Its humiliatingly slow, painful and clumsy, but at last I have traversed the short distance to the chair and am leaning back into its cushions. Shame burns my face when I realize that I am trembling from exertion and shivering from cold. What kind of a warrior am I, if I can't walk an arm's length to a chair? I close my eyes so that I don't have to watch as my decrepit body is covered in heavy blankets and tucked into the chair like an hoary dotard.

Is this what I have survived for? To be ancient and cared for as a baby?

A second infancy.

A second chance. A babe must is born weak and frightened, but the babe grows.

I have been given my life back—I will not let it slip away again, not without a fight.

TBC

A/N: This chapter was annoyingly reticent to be written. Hopefully the next one will be quicker in its arrival. Let me know what you think! Please REVIEW!!


	9. Blind Trust

**Blind Trust**

(Cullough's POV)

I look down the long dark tunnel of the main hyperdrive vent and sigh. Already I can feel the heat of the drives radioactive waste, and I know that it is only going to get worse the further into the ducts I go. I pull the collar of my coat closer around my neck and pull down my cuffs around my hands before stooping to enter the vent.

The radiation pricks my skin, even through the protection of my coat and makes my eyes water so I cannot see but through a liquid haze. There is a reason that I am the one being sent into the vents to repair the fissure that has been detected. The hyperdrive ventilation system is the most dangerous part of the hiveship; accordingly, if anything needs to be accomplished within them, only the lowest are sent in. If they die, it is no loss to the hive.

I am the lowest of the low in the hive, barely one step above the humans they keep in stasis for future 'consumption'.

Barely.

In the eyes of the queen and the eyes of every other wraith on this hive, excepting the young one who helps me for reasons only he and the Spirits know, I am tainted, dirty, beneath contempt. I had allowed myself to be captured, not even by another hive, but by humans. Not only had I not killed all the humans I came into contact with, I didn't fight to the death, and am therefore a coward. And, in being captured and living in human prison, I 'reek' of humanity. The intervening year has done nothing, in their opinion, to rid me of the stench.

Don't think about them. Think about the children. Gilleasbachan. He was always protective, always a fighter. I remember when he was very young, no more than a few years, he would assume an exaggerated fighting stance to ward insects and other small creatures away from his mother. When his younger siblings were born, he immediately became their protector too. He was always laughing, always playing, always smiling, but it never quite reached his eyes. His eyes were always watchful, aware of any threats to his family.

The vent branches and narrows. Before being vented to the depths of space, the exhaust is piped through a network of vents throughout the ship. The radiation produces heat, which is used to keep the ship as warm as it needs to be. When the particles are decayed to a certain point, they are burned in the sublight engines and released into deep space.

I curse under my breath and put down the repair kit so I can shrug off my coat and leave it at the juncture—it is too bulky to wear in the ever-decreasing space. Immediately, the prickling becomes stinging and burning. I crouch down to continue into the smaller tunnel, noticing the increasing warmth. The air sears my lungs, and I feel the crackle of energy as my body does its best to repair the damage.

At last, I see the fissure in the line. I kneel down to better repair it, and as I open the repair kit I notice that my hands are burned and blistered. If I want to get out, I'm going to have to hurry.

I quickly spread a thick layer of the polymer over the crack, forcing it down so it fills the space as much as possible. It quickly thickens and soon it will be hard as stone, protecting the rest of the ship from the deadly radiation.

The toxic air sears my lungs and my eyes burn. I grope blindly for the repair kit, holding it under my arm since my hands are stiff with charred flesh. I back out of the tunnel, coughing and gasping and cursing under my breath.

Don't think of the pain. Think of Mairghread. She was so tiny when she was born, smaller than any other of our children. She had been born a week or so early, but even so she was small. And quiet. She was such a quiet baby, with huge dark eyes that would pierce your soul with their gaze.

My foot kicks my coat—I clumsily pick it up and stumblingly run for the exit. I trip on the threshold, hissing as I land on my burned hands, gasping as my lungs struggle to take in oxygen.

"Grandfather!"

Hands grab my shoulders and turn me so I am lying on the floor. The kit and my coat are taken away, a hand presses against my chest and energy leaps through my body, burning away the burns. My breathing eases as my lungs heal, my hands and body ache as new skin and sinew replaces the old.

But no matter how much I blink, my vision remains dark.

"Enough, young one, enough," I push his hand away, despite his stuttered protests. "I will live—any more would be superfluous."

"But, your eyes," he whispers and I sense his hand hovering near my face. "You can't see."

"I will live." I repeat and change the subject. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to get you, I have been granted permission to test my new beam design, and use you as a test subject. Come on," he pulls me to my feet, helps me into my coat and grabs my arm, ostensibly, I guess, to steer a test subject to the hangar, but really to guide a blind old wraith to his escape route. In my mind he whispers, "You have the address?"

I plant the address in his mind, warning him to go to several other addresses first, that when he arrives his sensors will show only a desolate planet and that the dart will not be able to travel far beyond the gate before it hits a force field.

The air changes and I know we have come to the hangar. Someone calls out to the young one, "Hey, what are you doing with the old man?"

"Someone needs to test my new beaming system," he shouts back, playing their game. "Might as well be him—if it kills him, what's lost?" We walk a little further and he tells me, "Wait here."

I stand still, listening to the snickers and taunts of the others as the young one brings the dart to life. The displaced air causes a whirlwind as the dart rises into the air, sending small bits of debris flying until I hear the hum of a beam, a sudden stinging coldness and then

Soft sod and sharp rocks poking me as I fall with the momentum of the dart as I am beamed onto the planet. The air is fresh, smelling of crushed planets, wild flowers and morning sunshine. I hear the dart sink to the ground, much quieter than the old design, and I raise myself to my knees, panting slightly with the effort. My lungs are scarred beyond repair at this point in my miserable life: no amount of healing energies could help them. My eyes are perhaps not beyond hope, but I will not accept any more help from the young one. He has done enough.

"Are you alright?" I hear his footfalls, his heavy boots releasing the scent of the field with every step. "Let me help." Hands under my arms help me to my feet and he solicitously brushes the stray leaves from my front. "Where do we go now?"

"You cannot take this journey with me, young one," I tell him sadly. "Long ago, this place was protected from our kind. I will be allowed through, because my DNA will be recognized by it. If you tried to pass the wall, you would be killed."

"I will not leave you alone here," he insists. "At least let me take you to the wall."

I sigh, and relent. "Is there still a road leading away from the ring?"

"Yes."

"We will walk along the road. Several hundred paces on, there should be a low stone wall. That is where we must part."

He guides me slightly to the left and steadies me as I find my footing on the stone, before steering us forward along the path. The path I walked all those millennia with Gilleasbachan to entrust Mairghread to these people's care. They called her the Star Child, I remember. Then I had created an illusion of cloud around my face, as had Gilleasbachan. Now, they would see me as I am, as I have become.

"Can you at least call to the people here? Have them meet you?" he asks and I am not for the first time touched by his concern.

"I will see," I let him lead me, trusting him to keep me from faltering. With my mind, I reach out for the device I left with them, which allows me to project a hologram of myself and speak with them. It is easier when I am asleep, and my mind is freer, but the proximity seems to make up for this. In my mind's eye, I see the small courtyard where I left it, somewhat changed by the millennia, though not rundown. A woman walks into my view and bows.

"Are you the Mercy-Bringer?" she asks, briefly glancing over her shoulder and beckoning to someone. A man, who I recognize as the one I spoke to about John coming for Mairghread.

"Yes," I reply, my voice sounding watery through the medium of the machine. "I am in need of your help."

"Anything, my lord," the man also bows. "What do you require?"

"Please meet me at the wall. I would explain…in person."

He nods vigorously. "Of course. We will be there shortly."

"Thank you."

I disconnect from the machine and find that the young one has wrapped his arm around my shoulders to steady me better. Suddenly, we stop and he steps away.

"We are here, Grandfather," he announces, his voice tinged with sorrow. "Are you certain…?"

"Unfortunately, yes," I reach out to embrace him. "This is where we must part. But, young one, do not return to the hive. My disappearance is easy to explain, but we both know that you would not last out the year there. Take the dart, destroy the tracker, and go to this planet," I mentally give him the address, to ensure he will remember it. "It is uninhabited now, but it was once a place of rest, safety and meditation. Stay there, separate yourself from the hive's mind. When you can wholeheartly say that our purpose is not to dominate but to coexist, return here. Ask for sanctuary. I will tell them to check this gate at the change of every season." I wrap my arms around him, embracing him as a son. "Take care, Athairne."

"What did you say?" he whispers in my ear, so quietly I have to strain to hear it.

"I name you, Athairne," I whisper back. "Be nameless no more. Tell no one, but remember this name, and as you meditate, learn who you are."

"Thank you, grandfather," he murmurs, and is gone. I hear his footsteps retreat down the path, and as I open myself slightly, I sense a new resoluteness in him. He will not return to the hive, I am certain. I will reach out to him, in time. Before I die.

If my memory serves me correctly, the town is several miles from the wall. It will take them some time to reach me, so I carefully lie down on the warming stones, acutely aware, suddenly, how my balance seems to have been affected by my loss of sight.

My other senses seem to have been heightened, however. I smell the rocks beneath me, a hard, damp earthiness; the fragrant plants which grow between the cracks, crushed under our feet, their scent fresh and clean. My own scent, dirty with oil, decay and death. A gentle wind blows over the field, blowing my hair into my face to tickle my nose, carrying away my stench and bringing the perfume of a distant sea.

I must have gotten lost, carried with the wind far, far away, because I am abruptly aware of feet running towards me, hands reaching out to feel the pulse points in my neck and wrists, brushing away my hair and speaking in strange accents.

"My lord, are you well?" I recognize the man's voice as the one who I spoke before. I begin to rise, many hands springing to my aid. "My lord, your eyes…"

"Will not kill me," I cut in. "Thank you for coming. Who am I speaking to?"

"I am Iain, my lord. Why would we not? Our people have been protected by you for countless generations. It would be churlish if we refused to help our benefactor," he replies. "How can we help?"

"Do you have the means to communicate with the man who came for my daughter?"

"Yes, John Sheppard told us how we may communicate with them."

All but one pair of hands disappear. I suspect it is the woman who was near the device.

"Please tell him that Cullough would like to see his children one last time." One hand rests on my back, keeping me steady while the other grasps my wrist, ready to lead. "While I wait for his arrival, perhaps you would let me stay where my daughter slept."

"Certainly. Come, come. Siobhan will guide you, if you will allow it." I nod my aquiescence and we begin moving. "But, forgive me if I am forward, would you not be more comfortable in one our guest rooms? Perhaps even our houses of healing? You are wounded, and look weary."

"Thank you, but no. Save your homes for others more worthy. I will be fine." Houses are for the living, not the dead.

"Then at least let us bandage your eyes and provide clean clothes, my lord," Iain offers in a tone that will not allow me to refuse without causing hurt. Inwardly I sigh. I had hoped simply to be able to contact John Sheppard and sleep 'til he arrived, or give up my spirit in peace if he did not. The Spirits seem to have other plans.

"Again, thank you, Iain."

We walk on, the others in the group speaking softly of matters private and public. Of children born, those recently gone on to the Land Beyond the Stars, of new buildings and potential discoveries. Of relatives in other villages. Of the seasons and crops. The thousand and one things with which we fill our days.

I let myself get lost in their conversations. Not really listening, but letting the words carry me like a leaf in a stream. I am so very tired, to be carried off this way is a relief. I am tired. Tired of pain, of loneliness. I am wearied of existence, which seems to offer nothing besides these things.

"Watch your head, sir, the lintel is rather low," Siobhan warns me quietly and I duck my head accordingly so I can pass through the door. She guides me to sit on what I guess to be a low bed and eases my tattered coat off my shoulders. "The coat is not beyond repair—I'll see what our leatherworkers can do, shall I?"

I nod mutely, and hear her give my coat to someone else, telling them to hurry. Water runs somewhere to my right, filling a basin while somewhere else someone washes their hands. The handwasher then takes up the basin and places it closer to me, on a stone table, I think, and sits opposite me.

"Sir, I am called Blàr," he says. "I am going to wash your eyes before I bandage them."

Again I nod once, closing my eyes, which have been stupidly open the entire time out of pure habit. A cool cloth touches my face, gently washing away the grime of the engines. Blàr's hands are gentle as he works to clear the remains of burned skin off my face and away from my eyes. The water runs down my face, my neck and soaks the collar of my shirt.

"Do you want help taking off your shirt?" he asks and I almost laugh—the man has been a healer a long time, or else was born to it. His question does not leave the option of _not_ taking off my shirt, simply the option of _how _ it would come off. I shake my head and try to undo the laces with clumsy fingers, but the knots have not moved in centuries and have become stiff and sealed with blood. Blàr makes a sound in the back of his throat and I hear him reach for something. "I think they need to be cut, sir. If you'll permit me?"

I mutely agree, dropping my hands to my sides. Metal glides across metal, shearing through the ancient fibers, and allowing me to discard it with minimal difficulty. As my chest and back is revealed to the healer, I hear him hiss through his teeth, and I imagine his face twisted in shock, horror, consternation or any other emotion which might be flitting through his mind.

"They are old," I tell him, but he begins to wash off the flaking skin from the radiation burns, old blood and grime. "They will not require treatment."

He harrumphs, but once he has satisfied himself that I am mainly scarred and now only slightly dirty, he desists and hands me a clean shirt. I slip it on, hearing my joints pop loudly, letting their displeasure be known. I imagine Blàr scowling and decide that, since I cannot actually see him, I am justified I ignoring it.

He applies a light salve to the lids of my eyes ("to help the burns") before securing a thick soft pad over them with a long strip of cloth wound around my head. A momentary panic seizes me, an instinct born of captivity that being blindfolded is a very bad thing before reason can reassert itself, pointing out that since I was blind anyway, what difference did it make?

New footsteps approach. "Are you certain you would not like to rest here, sir? Surely it is more comfortable than the chamber…" Iain's voice is both uncertain and cajoling.

I shake my head. "I would be near where my daughter slept," I reiterate and I hear the men share a sigh of resignation.

"Very well then, perhaps you'll allow me to conduct you there?" Iain asks and takes my arm. I rise and follow, listening for his warnings of low doors and steps. At last, I sense the stasis pod hidden in the tree. Iain steps back, softly telling me that someone will always be near if I should need anything and I will be informed as soon as they hear from John Sheppard.

I open the tree and grope my way to the stasis pod. I run my hands over it, smelling the lingering scent of my tiny daughter, of infancy. I lean against it as I slide to the floor, my strength nearly spent. I rally myself for one last thing before I sleep a while. I reach out with my mind for Gilleasbachan or Mairghread. It is harder when awake, but I feel the pull of a healing sleep beyond communication. Mairghread is far away in her own mind, beyond my reach. Gilleasbachan is distracted, and it takes me a few tries before I grasp his attention.

"Dad, what's wrong?" he asks worriedly.

"Nothing," I lie. "I am waiting where we left Mairghread. They are calling John Sheppard. Make sure he comes."

"I will," he assures me, and though I can tell he does not believe all is well, he says no more.

"Taigh leat," I say and he is gone. I sigh, try to find a comfortable position, and slip into sleep.

Please come, John Sheppard. Grant a dying father his last wish.

TBC

A/N: I'm so very cruel to my characters, I fear. Thanks to everyone who left a review for Chapter 8 :) . Leave a review for Chapter 9 to make Chapter 10 come faster!


	10. Glimpses of Light

**Glimpses of Light**

(Gilleasbachan's POV)

She's so…small. So young. For all she must have aged to adulthood, for all she was old enough to rescue me, to save me and drag me back from the gates of death, Mairghread is still…a child. My baby sister. Watching her sleep in this bed in a dark corner of the infirmary simply seems to emphasize this point. She's curled up on her side, tubes running in and out of her hands, wires disappear into the neckline of her shirt. Her hair seems to have creeped like a climbing plant over the small mountain of blankets that dwarf her slight frame. Her mouth is slightly open as she breathes shallowly, her eyes roaming beneath their lids. Every now and then she gasps and twitches in response to something in her dreams. Now she frowns, and I reach out with a trembling hand to touch her face, soothing away the imagined monster, whatever it is.

"She's okay, you know," a young woman, Dr. Keller, tells me, standing on the other side of the bed. "She's just sleeping it off."

"I know," I say, quietly, withdrawing my hand. "I just had to see her."

"I understand," Dr. Keller comes around to unlock the wheeled chair I am in and begins pushing me back towards my room, my guards in tow. "You're the big brother, right? You gotta protect her, your little sister. Oops," she seems to realize that this might not be the best thing to say. "Sorry."

"No, you are right." I tell her, and stare at my hands. Withered, scarred, bony, shaking hands attached to twig arms. Exercise, like they just had me do in 'physical therapy', will restore strength to my body. But it will not help me to be Mairghread's older brother, her protector.

"Aw, come on. Don't be like that," she wheedles encouragingly. "I'm sure you'll be bossing her around and telling her what guys she can date in no time."

Guys? Date? What is "date"? What guys?

"What is 'date'?" I ask, not sure I want an answer. Behind me, I hear the guards snicker and Dr. Keller suddenly seems to be choking on something.

"Um, dating is when, um, two people agree to meet, go out for a meal, see a movie for the purpose of, um, finding a mate," she says quickly, sounding intensely uncomfortable, and pushing the chair at a slightly brisker pace than before.

My sister? Trying to find a mate?!

_Gilleasbachan_.

She's not old enough to 'date'. Well, technically she is, but no. No, my baby sister is nowhere near ready to find a mate, to start a family.

_Gilleasbachan!_

Who would she find here? Are the wraiths I just can't sense? Would she try to find a mate among humans? Is that even biologically possible?

_Gilleasbachan!_

I finally acknowledge the persistent poking of my mind, to sense my father fretting faintly at the very edge. The connect seems tenuous and much weaker than normal. Sudden fear stabs at my heart. "Dad, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." Liar. If nothing were wrong, you would wait till night when our minds were freer. Even awake you should be stronger than this. "I am waiting where we left Mairghread. They are calling John Sheppard. Make sure he comes."

"I will," I tell him, sensing pain and exhaustion consuming his being, even over this great distance and poor connection. But I do not press the issue. If the people are calling John Sheppard to come, I hope to see my father soon. Better to berate him in person.

"Taigh leat," he says, and is gone.

Worry gnaws at my mind—something is _wrong_. Dad must really be close to death, really be dying. I sensed, when we spoke, when he convinced me to try and heal, that he was weak. But somehow, I didn't quite believe him when he said he was dying. He is my father, still alive after more than 20,000 years. How could he die? He told me when I was very young that death comes to all, that even the stars die. And yet, death has passed over him for so long, denied him that final journey and reunion with Mother…could this be his time?

No. It is selfish, perhaps, but he may not die. Not yet.

"Gil? You okay?"

I realize that we have arrived back in my room and that Dr. Keller seems to be giving me the choice of returning to bed or sitting in a chair for a while longer.

"Yes, I am fine," I reply and nod my head towards the bed. She says something to the effect that it was a good choice, and that lunch would be brought soon.

"Where is John Sheppard?" I ask once the Doctor and a nurse I do not recognize have gotten me into bed and finished fussing with reconnecting me to the noisy beeping machine.

"Col. Sheppard?" she repeats. "I don't know. I can try and find him…is it important?"

"Yes." Perhaps not to you, but for my father, for Mairghread, for me? Intensely.

A small device in her ear crackles at that moment and she taps it to stop the noise. However, I hear a faint, distorted version of John Sheppard's voice emanate from it. Dr. Keller looks confused for a moment, listening to Sheppard's question.

"Sure, hang on one sec. Um, Gil, have you heard from your father lately?" she asks, somewhat awkwardly. "Col. Sheppard wants to know."

"Yes. He is waiting for John Sheppard where we hid Mairghread."

Her eyes get even wider than normal in seeming surprise. "Um, yes, Colonel. Gil says that Cullough's waiting for you where they hid Mary. Oh, um, okay. Be there in 15. Keller out." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out what looks like a small, squishy ball. "Here, I want you to squeeze this, help build up your hand strength," she says as she puts the ball next to my hand. "I've got to go."

I watch her disappear through the swishy doors, and my guards retreat to a discrete corner of the room.

I stare at the blue ball, picking it up with my claw-like hand. It seems heavy in my grasp, though I can see, I _know_ that it must in fact be very light for its size. I begin to compress it in my hand, a more difficult task than I would like to admit.

"_Gilleasbachan, what are you doing? You're going to freeze to death you idiot," Ceana berates me as I stand in the snow, watching the frozen rain float to the ground so silently. "Aunt Ceridwen is making stew," she wheedles, taking a step out of our aunt's grounded hive into the deep white drifts. She crosses her arms and juts out her hip. "Come on, what is so fascinating, Gil?"_

"_Don't you see?" I ask, as I begin gathering the flakes into a ball. "Each one is unique—the same basic crystal structure arranged in infinite ways."_

"_I'm sure that's fascinating, warrior boy, but as your older sister, I order you inside!" _

"_You're 5 years older than me, Ceana. That hardly makes you the arbiter of what's good for me," I rile her, taunting her to get her to take just a few steps closer…_

"_Is so," she counters childishly, wading through the snow, obviously with the intent of forcibly bringing me inside. _

_Thank you, for stepping closer._

_I throw the snowball in my hand at her—damn. I meant to hit her head, but it hit a little lower. _

_She is going to kill me. _

_Ceana stares at the now splatterd snow plastered across her chest, and screams at me, gathering snow from the hip-deep drifts as she runs at me. She smashes the snow into my hair and shoves it down the collar of my coat. I shove it down her shirt, and we end up rolling in the snow, soaking ourselves to the skin. _

I smile at the memory. Of course, we incurred the wrath of our aunt and uncle, and got sick from being out in the cold so long. Even wraith get sick. Every organism larger than a microbe is susceptible to microbes who take advantage of their weaknesses. During childhood, our bodies simply become adept at killing them, and healing their damage.

Has Mairghread gotten sick? Her childhood would have been very brief, and being raised among humans, there's a chance that she would not have been exposed to the microorganisms that attack wraith. The infections are rarely serious, like human 'colds'.

But with myself, and Dad (I will not let you die, not yet), in the vicinity, it's entirely possible, even to be expected, that she will catch something we carry, but are immune to.

She has probably already caught something from me.

"_You are SO dead, Gilleasbachan," Teàrlag growls at me from her bed, where she is cocooned in quilts and sneezing every few seconds. "Why'd you have to kiss me when you were sick?"_

"_Sorry, little sis," I blow her a kiss from the doorway, and she scowls, but also laughs before a sneezing fit takes her and she decides to throw a book at my head. I flash her a grin and duck out before she can aim again._

After days of waking nightmares (don't think about them, don't think about them), it is a relief, however unlooked for, to remember happier times.

_They are dead, you idiot. You failed to protect them._

No, I tried. I tried. I'm so sorry, I tried.

_Mama's dead because of you._

"Go away, please," I whisper to the ghosts in my head, dropping the ball to bed and raising my hands to cover my ears, as though this could block the noise.

I know I failed them. I failed Ceana and Teàrlag, Mama and Durhan and all my family.

I will not fail Mairghread and Dad. If they need me to be the strong one, that is what I will be. Mairghread needs a big brother to protect her, Dad needs a son to lean on. I do not know how, but I will. I squeeze the blue foam ball with a renewed sense of purpose and urgency.

I will not fail again.

TBC

Reviews appreciated!


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